


it's okay, we're just here

by ManaGummi



Category: Original Work
Genre: Flash Fic, Gen, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:35:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23746285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManaGummi/pseuds/ManaGummi
Summary: She angles her hand up, curls her fingers into her palm, swallows the moon in her grasp and pretends she can feel it flowing into her.Odds and ends and flash fiction.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 9





	1. not yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a feeling of being misplaced. a conviction to make a place.  
> \---------  
> General | Rated G | No warnings to note

Inky night and spattered flecks of stars spill through the gaps between her fingers as cold moonlight caresses her outstretched palm.

"I think," she starts, slow and calm and ever so clear, "I was never supposed to be here."

There’s a shift to her right, the faint rustle of fabric as he fidgets; uncertain, unsure. He's always been timid, always been scared, and even now in the hush of this moon-drenched space with no one to interrupt, he speaks as though it is forbidden. "Does that mean you're leaving?"

And oh, she aches at the quaking fear in his voice, at the way he tries to hide all the emotion from his words so that she can answer unburdened. A gesture of care, of release. But he has never been able to tamp down the feelings that well within him, that threaten to choke and drown him in their brilliance, their intensity. They are the same in that way. She aches for everything he is. She aches for everything she could be.

The moon rests atop her hand now, at the peak of her fingers. Cold and quiet. An impassive observer. She could reach out and take it, if she could only stretch a little farther. "Nah," she breathes into still air. "I'm not going anywhere."

She angles her hand up, curls her fingers into her palm, swallows the moon in her grasp and pretends she can feel it flowing into her.


	2. could be worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a misunderstanding born of insults
> 
> \-------------
> 
> General | Rated T for strong language | Warning for references to an apocalyptic setting

In retrospect, antagonizing the girl with the gnarly hunting bow was not a great idea.

But see, here’s the thing: Hal can’t take anyone seriously when they’re wearing a fucking _Mickey Mouse_ face mask. It’s even worse when the person wearing that goddamn Mickey Mouse mask maybe reaches the bottom of his chin at full height (and only if you add the extra inch from her high-tied ponytail).

So yeah, judging by the arrow now jutting out of the ground by his feet, Hal’s maybe made a few mistakes in telling her she looks like an idiot, but he thinks it’s justified. He’s not really looking for external validation on that right now.

The girl has a fresh arrow nocked and drawn back, and Hal’s an asshole but he’s not stupid. He flings both hands up by his head, fingers stretched wide and palms out in an attempt to keep Mickey Mouse Girl from shooting the next arrow into his knee. “Look,” he spits, and maybe he should work on his tone like his friends are always saying because House of Mouse quirks an eyebrow and pointedly draws the arrow a little tighter and _oh for fuck’s sake._ “Do you really have to do that? Like is that really necessary?” Hal grumbles while fighting the urge to bring his hands down just so he can flip her off.

Mouseketeer raises her other eyebrow before rolling her eyes. “It’s not like you’ve made a great impression here, idiot,” she snaps, and the words are slightly muffled by the mask (which has Mickey Mouse on it, in case Hal hadn’t already pointed that out) over her mouth and nose. It’s a good thing the forest is so quiet or Hal’s not sure he’d be able to parse anything she says. It’s also a good thing that her eyes, hazel and wide and round, are so fucking expressive, because they telegraph her every thought and action and give Hal some clue on how to avoid that arrow to the knee.

Right now those eyes are saying “talk fast or eat shit.” Hal talks fast.

“I’m not trying to pick a fucking fight with you!” he shouts with a half gesture towards the girl. “Or like, steal your fucking deer or whatever you’re hunting out here. I’m literally just taking a walk you fucking maniac, Jesus what is _wrong_ with you?”

Okay, Hal talks fast. He never said he talked _well_.

But maybe it works just a little bit anyway, because the girl narrows her eyes in what Hal _thinks_ is disbelief, kinda hard to really tell without seeing her whole face, and lowers her bow a few inches. “What the fuck,” she deadpans. “How have you made it this long?” Yeah, definitely disbelief then.

And honestly, that’s a valid question. They’re currently just outside a remote mountain town struggling to secure resources during what is essentially the apocalypse. Tensions are already running high already and Hal? Well, Hal’s not the best at backing down from a fight. So how _has_ he made it this long without getting his face punched in?

“I’ve got good friends.” And that’s the truth.

She snorts. “Too good if they’re dealing with that attitude.”'

Fucking, is she _really_ \- Actually, no. She’s got a good point, and Hal says as much. It makes something soften around the edges of her eyes, even if you have to really look to notice, and in one fluid motion she pulls the arrow off of the bowstring and slips it into the quiver on her back. Oh thank Christ, Hal thinks as he lowers his hands. His arms were really starting to hurt there.

The girl dangles her bow down by her side and quietly sizes Hal up with an intense, narrowed gaze. The effect is absolutely lessened by her cartoonish mask, and it takes a sizable amount of willpower for Hal to keep that thought to himself.

“Hey,” she calls, and the cutting edge in her voice is a little duller than it was before. “You and your friends eat meat?”

What.

“Uh,” Hal replies with grace and eloquence. “Yeah?”

She nods minutely to herself, thinking hard about something important judging by her furrowed brows. “So, it turns out I actually did manage to get a deer, or _whatever_ ,” and oh? Is that a sparkle of humor in her eyes? “And it’s more than enough for us, so- I guess if y’all… wanted some, we could split?”

“Uh,” Hal replies again. Fucking nailing it here. “That’d be great, actually.”

The girl nods again. “Cool, cool. I’ll be able to bring it over tonight if that’s chill?”

“That’s definitely chill,” Hal confirms. “What’s your name, by the way? I’m Hal.”

She quirks her head, and her eyes crinkle enough that Hal can tell she’s smiling under her Mickey Mouse mask. “Melody.” And maybe Hal still can’t take the girl, Melody, seriously when Michael J. Mouse is adorning her face, but he can - maybe, here in the shift of all things - learn to try.

There are worse ways to spend the apocalypse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a steamboat willie mask and i don't think anyone can take me seriously in it


	3. oh dear beloved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's not the end for you. not yet
> 
> \-----------
> 
> General flash fiction | Rated T for allusions to death | Warning for implied suicide

It is in the cold expanse of nothing that you, oh dear beloved, find a beginning and not an end. And how cruel a fate it is, when all you had hoped for  _ was _ the end.

But hush now, dry your tears. Fear not the specters of your past and head forth to embrace the spirits of the present. The chill of death is not for you, not yet. Bask in the warmth of life for a little while longer, oh beloved. It will be worth it in the end.

That's a promise.


	4. unequal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no body is wrong. no body is equal.
> 
> \------------------
> 
> General flash fiction | Rated T | Warning for discussion of chronic illness and pain

There is no wrong body.

You know this now, know it in the way that the click of your bones snaps in a steady tempo, in the way that the flash of pain in your shoulder is syncopated with your heartbeat. There is no wrong body, no celestial mishap that poured your fragile soul into a vessel that could not contain it. There is just your body, and not all bodies are made equal.

And through each searing burn of tender flesh, it remains yours, remains here, remains the only wall between your spirit and the ether. Some days the wall is weak, little wisps of you seeping through the cracks and into air and into nothing and you can only watch as they go. Only watch as you fix the cracks and see what’s left after they’re gone. Only hope that there is enough left.

But it is still your body, however unequal.

And it is your body that keeps you here.

Keeps you with us.

Keeps you with me.

And for that I am grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that, as they say, is that


	5. you dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there is more and there is you
> 
> \-------------------
> 
> General poetry | Rated T for allusions to death | Warning for mentions of death

and though you live in the haze of the nothing

and though you feel the rot of death creep deep into your blood

and though existence is a weight upon the root of your soul

you know there is yet something more

and it is beautiful

and it is kind

and you dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does this count as poetry? it does now!


	6. and i am trying to be gentle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we keep ourselves as long as we can
> 
> \---------------
> 
> Horror/Suspense flash fiction | Rated M | Warnings for death, murder, and war involving children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *steeples my fingers* i cannot explain

The next scream makes you flinch, just like all the ones before. I hold you a little closer and card my fingers through your hair, gentle lies tumbling from my mouth like water rushing from a broken dam. We should be out there too, on cracked stone and scalding pavement, launching debris and swinging makeshift weaponry to repel those we should think are our enemies.

But you are a child, and I was once one too, and I cannot stomach the thought of extinguishing the light in a face so round as yours.

Here in the dark you fracture in my arms, and as the next body hits the wall outside our bedroom I hear you bite back a sob, so I lie and lie and lie and promise it is all okay. I know you don’t believe me, but we cling to these false idols anyway so that we don’t lose ourselves in the din of the war. We’ll be lost in the end though. Torn apart in body or soul when they come for us and drag our splintered minds into shattered streets, bidding us to partake in the horror or be consumed by it instead.

The next scream makes you flinch, and your nails break my skin yet dig in further as the blood wells in the crescent wounds. 

And I am trying to be gentle, but I am just as scared as you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to come yell with me on twitter @managummi


	7. some people

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you are some people
> 
> \-------------------
> 
> General flash fiction | Rated G | No warnings to mention

You remember, halfway through your fifth cup of pre-noon coffee, that some people are just sad and that you are some people.

It hits you like the time your mother slapped you in the passenger seat of her car: sudden if not really painful, unexpected despite the signs that hinted it was coming. One minute you are fine, secure in the blanket of ignorance that says you are not a sad person. A sad person does not make well received jokes or send full-formed letters to friends on a regular basis. You laugh frequently and smile widely, and that is not something sad people do.

Your reflection ripples in the inky mirror of your black coffee. You are not smiling. You are not laughing. Some people are just sad, and you are some people.

And here is the kicker: you knew this. It has not been secret or forbidden knowledge for quite some time. Late night ramblings to those you love have included screeds on the topic: you are sad, that is okay, please don’t try to change it. Yet in a brief moment of change from the tedium you felt happy, you felt content, you felt everything you are supposed to feel without the background of sadness painting a muddied picture. Worst of all: it felt nice. It felt like life was what it was supposed to be. You laughed frequently and smiled widely, both things that sad people do not do.

But you are some people, and some people are just sad. You were okay with that once before.

You’ll need to be okay with it again.


	8. not with gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an act of love
> 
> \-------------------
> 
> General Rambling | Rated G | No warnings to mention

I think the little pieces of me, held together with shaking hands, will be reunited not with gold but with something far less elegant. Hot glue and duct tape, perhaps, patched up like the seats of my father’s old golf cart on the farm. Neither beautiful nor streamlined, but still functional and  _ here _ . Worthy of the care given to it in the past and of that it will receive in the future, and is the act of fixing not one of love? When a child presents a torn drawing bandaged with too much tape do we still not find it in our heart to cherish it as the gift that it is?

I think maybe I can be cherished too. I think maybe I am worthy of too much tape that does not hide the tear but mends it. I think I am still here and that the act of persisting was an act of love I was not ready to claim, because to love myself is to accept that I am held together with something far less elegant than gold. To love myself is to welcome the next shattering, because it is another chance to fix the little pieces of me.

And is the act of fixing not one of love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just think kintsugi is neat


	9. don't be sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> those are the words i hate
> 
> \-------------------
> 
> General introspective flash fiction | Rated T | No warnings to mention

I stare at a familiar ceiling and finally understand what it means to hate the words "I'm sorry."

Sorry means there is something wrong. Sorry means in some way I am wrong. Incorrect in form or function, unacceptable in design, flawed in execution. At the very least, sorry means that you think I am not at peace with the way I am.

I am anger like a dry, burning field. I am hurt like a crashing wave. I am destruction like a collapsing star. I am compassion like a tender embrace. I am kindness like a cool summer breeze. I am affection like a favorite sweater.

I am all of these things. I am sorry for none of them.

So don’t be sorry. I won’t accept it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one big shrug emoji.


	10. your favorite color

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the color of love, the color of passion, the color of the end
> 
> \-------------------
> 
> Vaguely fantasy flash fiction | Rated M | Warnings for blood, non-explicit gore, panic attacks, and references to violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *winks and points* once again i cannot explain

Blood does not wash away easily.

But in your defense, you haven’t really tried to rinse it from your body yet. It stains your clothes in colors both muddy and brilliant, trailing up the planes of your arms and speckling the expanse of your stomach. It is iron and thick and pungent and wasn’t red your favorite color?

Something rises in your throat and you laugh a little brokenly in an attempt to keep it down.

What exactly happened here? You’ve been trying so, so hard to remember, scraping every last corner of your rapidly disintegrating mind for a hint of memory, a fragment of recollection. You search and search and only remember waves of red, and red was your favorite color. Red like kiss-bitten lips on a warm summer night. Red like a freshly plucked daisy carefully tucked behind your ear. Red like her nails that she always had you paint for her, gently, gently as she giggles against the shell of your ear.

Your gaze flicks to her fingers, pale and wane and too loosely gripping your own, and you stutter out a broken moan when you can’t see those primly kept nails among all the fucking red.

Someone is giggling, tipsy and manic and your vision tilts when you realize that someone is you.

She squeezes your palm and oh, there is still life left in her, still a glimmer of hope in this red sea. Your breath hiccups in your throat and you squeeze back, something harsh and wet sloughing through the blood on your face. You grip her hand with the strength of Atlas, the desperation of Orpheus. She is Ananke, fateful and needed, the only bond you have to the earth beneath your feet, and she is waning in your arms.

And you are no Achilles, you were not the hero that turned the tides of the battle in which you both fought. Your weapon clatters to your side as you clasp her hand between both of your own, and with your head bowed and stains of red on your face you summon the will to challenge destiny herself.

The gods of old had tales drenched in tragedy, but you, drenched here in red, will start the pantheon anew. You close your eyes against the blinding light gathering between your hands and hers, and your eyelids are bathed red in its glow.

It’s okay though. Red was always your favorite color.


	11. in habit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an exercise in that which you cannot do.
> 
> \---------
> 
> General | Rated G | No warnings to note

An exercise in habit.

Three times to build it, infinitely more to keep it. A stroke on the page. A pen dipped in ink. A stroke on the page. A pen dipped in-

A habit.

Habits are not your strong suit. Habits are stable like ticking clocks and nightly sunsets. You are not stable. You chime off the hour and pray no one will notice. You make it two times but never hit the third. You cannot keep what you cannot build.

A stroke on the page.

A pen dipped in ink.

A stroke on the page.

An inkwell spilled onto the floor.

A clock that chimes off the hour.

An exercise in failing habit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back. i'm glad you're here.


End file.
